All book-ed out.

This weekend I went to the annual Salon du livre in Colmar. With 25,000 visitors each year, it was a ‘book fair’ of rather large (and French) proportions. It consisted of expositions, stalls, interviews and meetings with authors, and of course more books than I thought was possible under one roof. Being very English and very much an amateur (in the French sense of the word…) I of course did not recognise any of the authors present, or the works discussed, but this did not restrain my excitement in any way.  Anyone who knows of my long-held (*idealistic) project to one day have my very own miniature library chez moi (alphabetized and categorised by language and genre….oh, and with a highly functional sliding ladder) will appreciate that simply being surrounded by book-lovers and the specimens themselves was enough to render the visit worthwhile.

What’s more, just when I was content with perusing the stalls and soaking up the bookish atmosphere, I ended up taking more from the event than originally anticipated. I had decided to purchase the novel of a Francophone African author, after watching an interview and being intrigued by his works set in the Congo. I realised it was about time I broadened my literary horizons beyond the continent and this seemed the perfect excuse to give into my book-buying compulsion (after all, I couldn’t attend such an event and leave without new material). As I was in the process of parting with cash well spent, the said author sat down in front of me and asked if I had any questions. Being a simple amateur du livre I of course did not, and thus followed a slightly awkward exchange in which I laid all cards on the table and admitted my French literary ignorance but mere desire to read, and in this case, read something a bit different. Luckily this was well received, and I parted not only with a new novel to enjoy, but a signed one at that. Win-win all round.  Another more random highlight happened earlier in the day. Whilst browsing, I noticed a stall devoted to Joseph Joffo, author of Un Sac de Billes, the first French novel (all be it written for children) I read in its entirety. Just as I was reminiscing, it was to my utter excitement to see that the small, old man taking his place behind the stall was indeed Joffo himself. Those around me probably did not see why I felt the need to exclaim regard, c’est Joseph Joffo! but after 2 years of “A Bag of Marbles” during A level French lit, this brief encounter had more amusing significance for me than others can probably appreciate.  If Monsieur Harvey had been there, I am sure he would have shared my enthusiasm.

Alors, two contrasting rencontres, several hours, and lots of literature later, I departed the salon all book-ed out. Luckily we had a little time to visit my first marché de Noel of the festive season before going home. The day ended on a high with the commencement of Christmas cheer, and of course a vin chaud to toast a day well spent. Bonne lecture!